A New Sort of War (An Underhand Invention Book 3), page 3
“Mr Perkins. Signal Ariadne for a boat.”
Gilbert trotted up the ladder to Ariadne’s side, gravely acknowledged the pipes that welcomed him aboard, requested a few words with her captain.
“Has your wireless range to message Alexandria, Captain Orlebar?”
“Just about, Maltravers. Problems?”
“Complete refusal to cooperate, sir. No Turks in these waters. No need to send ships to sea. Need their guns to overawe the wogs. Don’t want to dirty the paintwork. I have been refused access to Intelligence on the grounds they are all liars anyway.”
“They normally are, Maltravers. Can’t trust Intelligence. In London they are a bunch of poofters and all of them doubled and working for Germany and France as much as England. Out here, they have funny ideas about noble sheikhs and all that. Still poofters, of course. Can’t trust them an inch.”
Gilbert was taken aback – to the best of his knowledge, he had never come into contact with an intelligence officer and had no acquaintance with their personal habits.
“I expect my late elder brother would have known more about them, sir. Far more his cup of tea.”
“Cousin of mine – got caught up with intelligence damned near ten years back. Never liked him. Last I heard, he was in St Petersburg, trying to foment revolution. Sending money to exiles in Geneva mostly. Damned unreliable sort, Maltravers. If you insist, I shall send word to them myself, have them come aboard E 12, but I don’t trust a word they say. Let’s take you down to the wireless room.”
Gilbert sent a carefully worded message to Alexandria, reporting his presence in Aden and the refusal of the Admiral to offer any assistance to E 12.
Later that evening a message was sent across from Ariadne that the problem had been sent up to the Admiralty, Aden being out of the direct command of Alexandria.
Lieutenant Palmer-Iremonger returned in mid-morning.
“I am to escort you to the Intelligence people, sir. Admiral Clements has decided you must be indulged in your desire to listen to their nonsense.”
“Received orders, has he? What ships are to be released to duty along the coast? Have they all adequate wireless installations? I will need to speak with their captains, obviously.”
“Admiral Clements has sent a message to the Admiralty, explaining the fallibility of their assumptions, sir. There is no reason to suppose any ships will be sent out. As for wireless, the Admiral prefers signals to be made correctly by flag.”
“Submarines have no masts. One might have hoped that the Admiral had noticed that. It is difficult to rig a mast underwater!”
“But… How can you make signals?”
“By wireless.”
“But… The wireless is a mere fad – it cannot last. It is obvious that the long-established orthodoxy of the flag must be recognised as superior.”
“The wireless permits communications over hundreds of miles. It is the sea-going equivalent of the telegram.”
“We never indulge in that vulgarity in our family, sir.”
Palmer-Iremonger could not understand why Gilbert burst out laughing.
“I am about to use the wireless again, sir. I shall send a message to Alexandria laying formal complaint that the local senior officer at Aden refuses to obey orders from the Admiralty. That message will be sent inside the next ten minutes.”
Ariadne’s captain was willing to indulge Gilbert in free access to his wireless installation. He had been called ashore to the Admiral and had been thoroughly abused and accused of disloyalty for permitting the mere submarine commander to go over the Admiral’s head to Alexandria and London. He had pointed out that Gilbert was his senior, had been made lieutenant commander a week before him; his argument had been ignored. He had been austerely informed that no mere submariner could ever claim seniority.
“Nasty little shit, Clements. He will be trying to stab your back in London, Maltravers.”
“Not much I can do about that, I am afraid.”
“I was told your wife’s people had a lot of clout, Maltravers. Goodman, isn’t it? Big in the City? Might be, old fellow, I could send message to the Flag Captain at Alex, mentioning a name or two. He knows who my people are – he happens to be a cousin, in fact. Can’t do much from Aden, but he can get onto the telegraph from Alex.”
“Who are your people, old chap?”
“Related to Hoares themselves, in fact, Maltravers. We Orlebars are not small in the City, but Goodman has more clout than us. I am fairly much certain my people will be glad to perform a small service there.”
Gilbert was not entirely delighted to scuttle for the protection of his wife’s father – it did not suit his notions of independence and was not the way the Navy should be run, particularly in time of war. There was little practical alternative.
“Do it, please, Orlebar. It’s a poor day for the Navy that we have to go outside for assistance, old chap. Why they insist on retaining the services of fools such as Clements is beyond me. Better far to simply dump him. Their Lordships know he is useless – why keep him in a command?”
Orlebar laid a finger against his nose, the sign of knowledge that was not to be made public.
“Strictly on the QT, old chap, and I never said a word – his Aunt Maude was a close friend of Dirty Bertie’s for some years. Was in the habit of inviting young debs to her house – tea parties, you know – and bringing the Prince of Wales, as he was then, in to meet them, all on the sly. Nasty sort of business and must be kept quiet – wouldn’t want that to get out. Clements may be useless but he must be kept in employment, even if only at Aden. However, that all happened twenty years ago and if pressured by powerful figures of today, then Clements may find his privileged existence to be coming to an end. Leave it all to me, old chap!”
Gilbert nodded and returned to E 12, slowly realising that Orlebar regarded him as a powerful figure, or as having the potential to become such. By doing Gilbert a favour now he was storing up goodwill for the future. Twenty years hence, as a rear admiral, Orlebar might need assistance in picking up a desirable command, and he regarded Gilbert as a potential source of such favours.
It left a sour taste in Gilbert’s mouth – he did not like such manoeuvres, had never previously been in a place to be involved in them. He wondered again why Sir Michael had permitted him to wed his daughter. She could have picked up a Rothschild, or an equivalent family, and he had allowed her to go to an insignificant sailor. Possibly he was no more than a doting father, unable to refuse his daughter her personal desire…
A messenger, a Royal Marine, arrived on the casing, requested the commanding officer to accompany him to the shore office of the Intelligence department, to which he would act as escort, it not being desirable for officers to walk the streets of Aden unaccompanied. Gilbert found his hat and readied himself for a long march in the heat. They entered a building a bare fifty yards from the wharves. There was a Chief Petty Officer sat at a desk inside the door.
“Commanding Officer, E 12, Chief.”
The Marine sat down in a small waiting room, his job done.
“Shirtsleeve order is not acceptable in Aden, sir.”
“Submarine service. No other uniform to hand.”
“May I ask why that is so, sir?”
“No. It is none of your damned business.”
“Very well, sir. Please follow me.”
The CPO stamped through a rear door, making no attempt to hold it for Gilbert.
“Marine!”
“Sir?”
“You may accompany me back to E 12. I will not tolerate that conduct.”
The Marine stood and obeyed Gilbert’s command. He did not have the rank to argue.
“John, I expect a messenger to arrive in a few minutes, from the Intelligence people again. If it is a Jolly, send him down. If it happens to be a CPO – in his thirties, fair hair, blue-eyed – leave him to wait in the sun for half an hour.”
Gilbert explained, drew an appreciative grin. Thorndike would be only too pleased to let the petty office cook.
The CPO arrived and was told to wait. He demanded access to the boat after ten minutes out in the more than ninety-degree heat, was told to possess himself in patience.
“Is he well-done yet, John?”
“No more than medium rare, I would think, sir.”
“That should do. Ask what he wants.”
Thorndike leant out from under the borrowed awning which had been set over the conning tower.
“By God, it’s hot out here! You! The CPO. Have you a message for the boat?”
“I am to speak to Captain Maltravers.”
“Speak up! Can’t hear you over the noise of the fuelling pump.”
Diesel fuel stank in the heat, was adding to the petty officer’s discomfort.
“I have a message for the Captain.”
“Hand it over.”
“It is verbal, sir.”
“Then shout it up to me. I will inform Captain Maltravers. He won’t want to come up here – it’s hot, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I am to inform the gentleman that the Department has information that should not be discussed in a public place, sir.”
“Very good. That is noted. Captain Maltravers has already attempted to present himself to the Department but was insulted by an ill-mannered and ignorant junior doorkeeper. Please to ensure that particular fool will not be present again.”
“Yes, sir. Will Captain Maltravers please accompany me to the office, sir?”
“No. He has made the effort to do so once. Tell your people to come to him. I do not expect them to have anything worthwhile – they have taken no action that we are aware of in the past few months.”
The CPO was left with no alternative – he had to obey an order from a commission officer. He saluted and made an about turn and marched himself away, realising that he was carrying an oily smell with him, the diesel fumes having reached his uniform. Water was rationed at Aden, there was never quite sufficient, and he would be unable to have his uniform laundered before the end of the week. He was in an even worse mood than normal when he reported to his masters in the Intelligence Department.
“Well, CPO Carmody? Where is this damned submariner?”
“He has refused to come a second time to the office, sir. He sent a message that you must come to him.”
The Head of Station, who had been delighted that his work was finally to be accepted, was bitterly offended. He was a full commander and did not expect any officer junior to a battleship captain to call him to them. He had been informed that the CPO had been offensive to the submariner and was more than willing to turn his anger on the available target.
“Why were you deliberately rude to a commanding officer, Carmody? A submarine captain, repeatedly decorated already in this war, and you chose to insult him. Have you any explanation that will encourage me not to issue court martial papers?”
“He entered my office in shirtsleeves, sir!”
“And?”
“But, sir, regulations for Aden are clear, sir. Full uniform shall be worn, sir, at all times.”
“Shirtsleeves are full uniform for submarines, Carmody. Why did you not know that? You knew the gentleman was a submarine captain. Why did you not discover the regulations applying to the submarine? You are idle, Carmody, and ill-tempered! Go to your quarters and place yourself under arrest pending the actions of a Regulatory officer. And change your damned uniform! You stink, man!”
The Head of Station wrote a grovelling – as he saw it – note of apology and had the Marine messenger run it to E 12. Gilbert arrived a few minutes later.
“Terribly sorry, old chap – damned fool of a doorkeeper, wished upon the Department by the Admiral’s people and with no idea of what’s what.”
“The Navy is full of them, sir. A place like Aden even more so. After all, one is only posted to Aden after putting up a black.”
Gilbert smiled his kindest, letting it be assumed that he did not believe such to apply to Intelligence officers.
“Too many damned fools of that sort to be found here, Captain Maltravers. Now, sir, do take a seat. Tea or coffee? I do prefer the Turkish coffee, myself.”
Gilbert had met the Turkish brew in Alexandria – black and strong in tiny cups. He requested tea.
“The palate becomes used to submariner’s tea, sir. Black and strong, much over-sweetened, in pint mugs. I doubt I shall ever regain the use of my taste buds!”
It was jolly funny and broke the ice.
“I must imagine your wardroom is limited on a submarine, Captain Maltravers, and your own cabin cannot be large.” The Intelligence Officer pointed out of his window, overlooking the wharves. “Your boat seems tiny from here.”
“One hundred and eighty-five feet, external measure. It is not large, except that it is the greatest of our existing submarines. The new J Class, coming the year after next, it is planned, are to be twice as great and the K Class will be almost four times the size, a light cruiser almost at about twenty-five hundred tons. But the E Class, as you say, is not very big. I should add that there is no cabin or wardroom, hence my inability to appear in full uniform.”
“No cabin! Good God! Unbelievable that they should demand such hardships of an officer and a gentleman. Where do you sleep?”
“Three officers and we have an armchair and a bunk, although that doubles as the sickberth. We do not sleep for more than two hours at a time, sir. I would add that we have greater comfort than any of the hands.”
Gilbert explained their galley and mentioned the single head shared by all thirty-one aboard. He judged he had made a sufficiency of an impression and turned the discussion towards business.
“I am afraid I did not actually catch your name, sir.”
“Try not to use it, old fellow. We like our anonymity in the department, you know. Call me Burgoyne. I generally use the initial only when at all possible. Part of the tradition, you know.”
Gilbert managed a smile.
“Certainly, sir. Now, sir, can you tell me anything about these Ottoman gunboats that are thought to be frequenting these parts?”
“A lot, Maltravers. I have a full description of them and know where they are based. Admiral Clements prefers them to be a figment of my imagination – he does not wish to send anything to sea other than the pair of old light cruisers to the slavery patrol. He has a strong suspicion that his ships will be unable to catch them, or do much if they do find them, and so it is better they should not exist. He certainly does not wish to lead a squadron to sea himself and risk a failure under his direct leadership.”
“Have you reported this to London?”
“I have, Captain Maltravers. I understand that is why you have been sent here. There are reasons why it is preferred that Admiral Clements should remain in post.”
“Familial, one is given to understand.”
“Exactly so. I had not realised you to be familiar with them.”
Gilbert smiled his kindest.
“I wed into the Goodman family a few months ago. I have discovered an amount that was previously unknown to me since then.”
“That would be the South African family?”
“Sir Michael is settled in England now. His sons remain in South Africa and to the north in Rhodesia, as it is now known. There has been reference to the diamond and copper mines on the edge of the Belgian Congo.”
Burgoyne nodded, made a show of comprehension.
“Darkest Africa, still. Highly profitable, I do not doubt, Captain Maltravers.”
“I believe so. I am delighted, of course, to be wed to the family, but even more so with my wife herself. I had not realised quite how far I had been permitted to rise in the world – my family is Navy and County, of course, effectively unknown in London although to be seen in the Season.”
Burgoyne nodded – implying he knew that already.
“Your father is recently a vice admiral, is he not?”
“He is, and I suspect we all know why. He had command of the Live Bait Squadron, which should never have been placed where it was. Direct orders of First Lord and First Sea Lord placed old ships under direct and unreasonable peril – so all had to be covered up.”
Burgoyne said nothing. He did not need to.
“Now then, Maltravers. Along the coast, using various harbours of what we know as the Emirates, there are two destroyers and a pair of torpedo gunboats. Small ships but armed sufficiently to do harm to unescorted merchantmen. Probably capable of putting a torpedo into a slow cruiser or predreadnought – and we know that can be a disaster. There are shore batteries in the harbours, but whether they are manned and capable of action is uncertain. The destroyers are thought to be German S Class boats – we know that four of them were sold to the Ottoman Navy. They have been regunned to some extent. They were fast boats – what they are now, we do not know. Oil fired, it is thought but not confirmed. They might be something else. There is a degree of contradiction in the reports. The Admiral has used that to discredit them.”
“As I recall, Burgoyne, we are looking at a pair of four inch and something like a forty mil quickfiring cannon. Probably two. A pair of tubes, I believe. Certainly the case that E 12 would have to use torpedoes – no chance of a gun action succeeding.”
“That is a single four inch you carry, is it not? You would not do a lot to them with that.”
“What of the torpedo gunboats?”
“Slightly bigger ships at about seven hundred and fifty tons. Coal burners but good for not less than twenty-five knots, originally. Far more heavily armed – a pair of one-o-fives and six of fifty-seven mil and two thirty-sevens. A pair of Hotchkisses as well, though I am not certain which sort they are. Three tubes which are old seventeen inches – slow torpedoes and shorter range.”
“Again, that must be torpedo action. Do the four work together, separately in pairs, or individually?”
“Pairs most often. They are often held in port by fuel shortages. Coal and oil both have to come by sea and generally in small sailing craft from the Persian Gulf. A blockade would be effective but has been refused as too demanding on the Admiral’s resources. It is officially unnecessary because there are no units of the Ottoman Navy outside of the Black Sea.”
